Anthropologically Speaking
by UberPest
Summary: A series of interconnected fun and hopefully fluffy BB snapshots. It's amazing how much Brennan loves her job and sees the anthropological significance in the every day. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Mac n' Cheese and Hockey

**A****nthropologically Speaking**

**TAG:** A series of interconnected fun and fluffy oneshots. It really is amazing how much Brennan loves her job and sees the anthropological significance in every day things.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bones. If I did, I would indeed have "Boney-o's" cereal. one hundred percent of the RDA for calcium, phosphorous, and Vitamin D. Short story: If you recognize it, I don't own it.

**Spoilers:** Set several weeks after "The Wannabe in the Weeds"

**A/N:** _Really, I am a Wings fan (I actually have 2 favorite teams_—_one in each conference_—_but I've only knit a throwback sweater for the WINGS). The timeline is tweaked a tiny bit so Booth can watch his Flyers in the playoffs, but it's really not a big deal. Hey, after taking a bullet for somebody you should get to watch your team play for the Cup._

**Chapter 1: **Mac n' Cheese and Hockey

* * *

Dr. Temperance Brennen opened the door to her apartment. She had a duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a fussy FBI agent behind her. It had been weeks since he'd been shot at the karaoke bar, but he'd just been discharged after yet another surgery to help correct the damage to his shoulder. This time he got a small plate and the hope of regaining some use of his shoulder. The orthopedic surgeon was hopeful—eighty percent or better recovery—but only time would tell for sure.

"Bones, you really don't have to do this. I _can_ take care of myself. And Rebecca and I worked out visitation—Parker won't be coming to stay until after I get the all-clear so I don't have to try to take care of him while I'm laid up. It'll just be me at my place."

Brennan dropped his bag inside the door and pulled her key from the lock. The keys jangled as she hung them on a hook, the tiny skull grinning back at her.

"I know, Booth, but it would be easier on you to stay here and rest. I've got the guest room set up for you. Just make yourself comfortable and I'll take care of everything." She carried his bag into the guest room, leaving Booth to contemplate his situation.

He looked down at his wardrobe. His pajama bottoms were a gift from Hodgins—they were decorated with the Superman logo. His Philadelphia Flyers T-shirt was several sizes too large so it could accommodate the sling that cradled his right arm. He smiled and toed off the laceless shoes, keeping his left hand on the back of the sofa for balance. It wasn't his normal style of footwear, but his life was significantly easier without trying to tie his shoes one handed. Getting dressed was still a chore, but he was managing to get things figured out. He looked forward to wearing something besides lounge pants and oversized T-shirts again, despite being secretly pleased to wear superhero jammies in public.

He had just started down the hall to the restroom when Brennan appeared from the guest room blocking his way. She was holding two pillows.

"When you get settled I'll help you support your arm with these."

Booth calmly dismissed her. "I can do it. Relax."

"I'm sure you can, but let me help you." She stared at him for a moment before she softly added, "Please?"

Booth nodded, losing this little battle. "Okay," and stepped around her.

Brennan dropped off the pillows and moved into the kitchen. "I'll get you anything you need, but you _are_ on your own in the bathroom. I have to draw the line somewhere."

Booth grinned.

* * *

"When'd you get this, Bones?" Booth's eyes were glued to the shiny, new electronic addition to Brennan's apartment. A 50-inch plasma television, complete with 6.1 digital surround sound.

"When I asked you to convalesce here. I figured you'd be happier if you were able to watch a movie or a sports game on it and my old one was still broken."

Booth grinned, silently thrilled that she'd do something like that just to make him happy. Happy enough to not point out that it was "Sports" or "A Game," most definitely _not _"A Sports Game."

He responded like any sports-loving male, his voice barely above a whisper. "Awwwwsome." He looked around for the remote. Like a kid with a new toy he needed to try it out. He flipped on the set and immediately switched from the Discovery Channel—the on-screen guide read "Our Earliest Ancestors"—he didn't want to get into a discussion of anthropology with Bones right now. He suddenly realized what time it was and hurriedly flipped over to ESPN—The Cup playoffs were on. Luckily, the game wasn't on just yet, it was still the pregame show. He tried to sit gently on the couch, eyes never leaving the screen and made a slight pained whine. Though he could hear Brennan banging around in the kitchen and the television—with all its glorious digital sound—was up to a louder than reasonable level, she somehow heard the noise.

"Booth? Are you okay?" She called from the kitchen.

"Yeah Bones," his voice caught again. "I'm fine. Just a little—ah!" He winced again. "Sore. I'll be okay." His face screwed up as he rode out the wave of pain. When he opened his eyes Brennan was at his side.

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Her voice was edged with concern.

Booth shook his head. "A couple of days ago. I stopped taking them."

"Why would you do that?"

"I don't like them. They make the pain go away, but when they wear off it comes back _right now_. I can't prepare for it. I'm also getting weird dreams." He decided not to tell her they weren't just dreams, they were nightmares. The first round of nightmares left him exhausted and with several stitches nearly pulled out. He figured he was better off dealing with the pain than constantly re-injuring himself.

"Besides," he continued. "Pain is the body's way of telling you to stop. Trust me, I'll heal up faster if I'm in a little pain." He offered a smile that wasn't very convincing, but Brennan left it at that. "I'll be fine if I can just get comfortable and watch the game. Flyers are at Detroit tonight." He reached to arrange the pillows under his arm, but Brennan gently stopped him.

"Don't move, I'l help," she spoke softly, crouching next to him.

He shifted again, slowly lifting his right arm so Brennan cold place the stack of pillows under it for support.

"How does that feel?" she asked when she had it about right.

Booth rested his arm on the soft pile and visibly relaxed. "Perfect," he stated simply, his face inches from hers. He gave a genuine smile this time. "Thank you."

Brennan smiled back. "I'm going to go finish up in the kitchen. I'll only be a few minutes. If you need anything—"

"I'll yell," Booth finished for her and she stood.

The game was about halfway through the first period when Brennan returned with two plates of her famous macaroni and cheese. She placed them on the table in front of the couch.

"Oh, Wow, Bones. mac n' cheese!" He grinned, "Mac n' cheese and hockey. Life does _not_ get any better."

She thought for a moment. While it was a gross oversimplification, she realized the truth in those words. Anthropologically speaking, even on the most basic level, life _didn't_ get any better. Food to eat and the luxury of entertainment. A luxury because it meant a person had the resources to worry about more than basic survival. No matter how advanced or primitive the society, the basics of being human never changed.

"What are you thinking about, Bones?"

She blinked back into the real world. "Nothing important." She suddenly realized she had one more surprise in store for Booth and disappeared to the kitchen. "Close your eyes. I have something for you."

Booth waited for Brennan to return and heard the clunking of glass being set on the table in front of him and felt the shift of the cushions as Brennan settled into the couch to his right.

"Okay, you can open them now."

Booth opened his eyes and saw his surprise—a brown beer bottle glistened with condensation. He reached out with his left hand, grinning. "Labatt Blue! You got me hockey beer, Bones." He leaned in close to her face. "Thank you. So much."

Brennan felt the warmth of his breath mingling with her own when Booth's attention was snapped back to the television by a referee's whistle and screaming fans.

"Woo hoo! Fight!" He look at Brennan. "Well, I guess it can be a _little_ better," and winked.

She rolled her eyes and watched how easily he could eat using his non-dominant hand. It suddenly occurred to her that it was likely a skill he was forced to learn in the past. She hoped he wouldn't need to do it ever again.

* * *

During the first intermission Brennan cleared away their empty dishes while Booth again visited the restroom. Brennan was already seated on the couch when he returned. He attempted to get comfortable in his previous spot but couldn't. After several tries he groaned in frustration.

"What can I do to help you?" Brennan asked.

"I think—" Booth shifted again. "I think I need to," he stood and moved the pillows to the end of the couch opposite Brennan and she started to stand to help him. Booth stopped her. "No, no, stay there."

He sat next to the pile and turned his body so his knees and calves were supported by the pillows, stripey-sock-clad feet hanging over the arm rest. He rolled back until his head was suddenly resting in Brennan's lap.

"I need to lay down," he stated matter-of-factly.

Brennan stared back down at him, caught off guard by his position.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he teasingly asked at her expression.

"No, I'm perfectly comfortable," she knew he was purposefully pushing her buttons. "Are _you_ alright?"

Booth smiled. "Never better."

Brennan felt a little flip-flop in her chest and quickly looked back at the television. She tried unsuccessfully to find a place to rest her left arm without touching Booth any more than she already was. She settled for laying it uncomfortably along the back of the couch. She felt Booth reach up and take her hand in his.

"Bones?" he asked softly as he pulled her hand onto his stomach, threading his fingers through hers. He brushed his thumb across her palm and looked up at her. "Can I ask you something?"

She nodded, mouth suddenly dry.

"What do you think about hockey?"

Her brain couldn't comprehend the question. It was so out of place. Did she hear him right?

"Hockey?" She was confused.

"Yeah. Do you like it?"

She didn't answer right away, trying to discern the actual meaning behind the question before she answered.

"Yes, I do. I like it better than football, anyway. It's very fast-paced, there are many options on any one given play, and the attempts at scoring are much more fluid."

The corners of Booth's mouth curled slightly. Typical Bones response. "Good," his smile grew. "I'm glad we're not just watching this because _I_ like it."

Brennan returned his smile and shook her head at his small joke. She relaxed into the couch and tried to watch the game, keenly aware of the seating arrangements. She felt Booth shift to get a better view of the screen. She glanced down and noticed his hair was getting longer; it hadn't been cut since before—

She didn't finish the thought. She found herself brushing a few wayward strands off his forehead. When her fingers connected with the warm skin of his brow he inhaled sharply and tightened his grip on her hand.

Brennan froze, unsure if he was suddenly in pain again. After a few moments she breathed again. Booth closed his eyes and she began to stroke his hair, his breathing becoming more and more regular. She knew he wanted to watch the game, but he needed his rest much more, so she didn't wake him. She listened to his light snoring as Booth dozed and wondered how she was going to get him into the bed in the guest room for the night.

Her eyelids drooped and she was asleep before she had an answer.

* * *

_While I was writing this piece I was reminded of this quote: **"... Greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for a friend."**_

_This was inspired by a revelation I had while at a wings place with a friend who said something very profound: "Chicken and beer and pay day. Life does not get better."_

_Also, I know _Blue_ is crappy beer. My Canadian friends rip on me for drinking it, however it brings back frond memories of college dollar pitcher nights, so I still keep it on hand._


	2. Wrapped Around

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bones or anything else you recognize.

**Spoilers:** This is a continuation of Part 1, set several weeks later.

**A/N:** _Not quite as fluffy as the first part, so I hope it works. This was the best title I could think up in relation to the topic discussed.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 2: **Wrapped Around

* * *

Special Agent Seeley Booth turned his bureau-issued SUV down the two-track path through the national forest and glanced sideways at his partner. Some hikers had discovered a body—a skeleton, really—that morning and reported it to the Forest Service headquarters. Since the body was on Federal land, he got to tag along while she made the ID. He was thrilled to get out in the field—it was his first investigation since he'd returned to work without restrictions. Fortunately they'd been contacted quickly by the ranger station due Dr. Brennan's reputation.

Unfortunately for him, they had to drive several hours from DC to inspect the remains. This left them with plenty of time to discuss things he just wasn't interested in talking about.

"All I'm saying, Booth, is that in any group of people there is a dynamic that can easily be changed or upset simply by introducing a new member to that group and there is an anthropological reason for that."

"Like when someone bugs me and I don't like 'em?" He grinned, trying to make light of the bickering.

"Not precisely." She stated.

"Not precisely?"

"No." Her tone implying she was about to launch into a long-winded explanation of what _precisely _she did mean.

He rolled his eyes at the seriousness with which she discussed human social groups. He still couldn't understand why she understood socializing, but only as an observer not as a participant.

The Tahoe stopped near a white Jeep marked "FOREST RANGER", which was parked next to an area marked off by yellow police tape. The Jeep's headlights illuminated the small area. Booth killed the engine and they stepped out of the Tahoe, still arguing.

"In any social group there is an alpha male and an alpha female, right?" she didn't pause for an answer. "When a new person joins the group, all the members look to see how they fit into this new hierarchy; will they move up in status? Will they still be alpha? If it's a female, the other males see her as a potential mate. The females see her as competition for_ their_ mates. So the males will attempt to improve their appearance and behavior to get her attention, and the females will do the same to emphasize their roles as potential mates—to remind the males they are still there. They might wear nicer clothes, smile, or stand a little straighter. Most of the time they don't even realize they're doing it, but we're all biologically programmed to do so. We do what we can to attract a mate and perpetuate the species."

Booth closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, trying to relate her scientific ramblings into English, "So what you're saying is that the only reason we look and act nice is so we can get a little action?" He hated his life being condensed down into hormones and biological functions.

Brennan stopped and pondered this for a moment before answering. She nodded, "Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

Booth shook his head and dropped the subject. They approached the forest ranger, a curvy woman with a long braid down her back, and shook hands. Booth noted the woman's name badge read "Melissa Foley."

"The body's over here," Foley lifted the tape to allow the two access to the scene while Brennan donned examination gloves. Booth wrinkled his nose, even though the body smelled very little, which surprised him since it was extremely decomposed. The remains were only about a hundred feet off the hiking trail.

Foley continued, "Two hikers found it this morning, they thought it was a deer at first, until they got a good look at it. We've had rain off and on for weeks, so we haven't had too many people out on the trail. We have no idea how long it's been out here. The bones are scattered, but not too badly."

Brennan crouched next to the bones, her conversation with Booth set aside for the moment. Her eyes scanned the remains while she cataloged features out loud, her voice neutral.

"Pelvis suggests male," she leaned in closer, then rocked back onto her heels. "Approximately twenty-five to thirty years old, Caucasian." She looked at the skull—what was left of it—and continued. "Probable cause of death: blunt force trauma to the head. Strike damage is consistent with that of a pipe or a baseball bat."

"How long do you think he's been here?" Booth asked.

Brennan shook her head, not unsure, but thinking. "There's very little insect activity, and there's virtually no remaining soft tissue. There is an extreme amount of scavenging, likely from—" She looked at the ranger, "Rats and weasels?"

Foley shook her head. "Buzzards. They can strip a carcass to nothing in the blink of an eye."

Brennan nodded. "Once I get the remains back to the Jeffersonian Zack and Hodgins can get an approximate time of death and Angela can put a face on him." She looked at ranger Foley. "I'll need all the soil to a depth of twelve centimeters and a three meter radius from the body."

"I'll let the forensics guys know and we'll get him out of here." Foley turned and walked away, relieved to be rid of the body.

She stood, stripped off her gloves, and looked back up at Booth. She repressed a smile when she saw him watching the ranger's retreating form. His posture had changed slightly; he was standing a little straighter and had his thumbs hooked in his hip pockets.

She chuckled when he noticed she caught him. His ears reddened as he was suddenly self-conscious.

"What are you laughing at?" He asked as they turned back to the Tahoe, walking side-by-side.

"You. You did what we were _just_ talking about and you don't even realize it."

Booth shot back, a hurt tone in his voice. "I did _not._"

Brennan verbally jabbed at him. "You were chucking her out."

"_Checking,_ and no I wasn't," Booth started to get irritated.

"No?"

"No. I don't _check out_ married women."

"How do you know she's married?"

"Because," Booth waived his left hand in her face, a smug look on his face. "She was wearing a ring,"

Brennan grinned. "You looked for a ring and yet you _weren't_ looking at her as a sexual partner?"

Booth stopped moving and his face fell. He walked right into her trap and he didn't like where this was going.

"I wasn't _looking_ for the ring, I just—" he jogged a few steps to catch up with her "—noticed."

"It's okay, Booth. Anthropologically speaking, rings are a socially accepted way of marking one's territory and establishing ownership of a mate. Many cultures use them. It only stands to reason that we'd immediately look to see if a potential mate has already been claimed by another before investing time and effort into courtship."

They stopped by the rear of the Tahoe and Brennan loaded her kit into the cargo area.

"So what, now?" Booth started. "I give you a ring because it's easier than peeing on your leg before we go out?"

Brennan stared at him for a moment as his eyes widened when he realized exactly what he'd just implied. He immediately stumbled over his own words, trying to extricate himself from what was quickly becoming a _very_ unpleasant conversation.

"I don't mean _you_, you. _You_ in general, not _you_ specifically. A woman, not _you_."

Brennan cocked her head at him and asked flatly. "I'm not a woman?"

"That's not what I meant!" Booth defended himself. _'Do we need to have this conversation _now_?'_ he thought.

Brennan looked at him, one eye closed against the sun. "What _did_ you mean?" she asked, the playful smile evident in her voice as she stepped close to him, invading his personal space.

Booth blushed. _'Stop digging, Seeley boy.'_

He looked at her, trying to avoid eye contact. He looked down and immediately looked back up at her face.

"You are. You are most definitely a woman. You're just—" he couldn't even think. There were so many things he _wanted_ to say here, but not one would get him out of this mess. No, they'd only make it a _bigger _mess. He exhaled sharply, not finishing his sentence. His shoulders sagged, defeated. He knew he'd lost this round.

Brennan grinned and walked away. She climbed into the passenger seat, calling back at Booth.

"It's okay to admit you look!" She didn't define _who_ it was okay for him to look at.

He dropped his head and groaned inwardly. He kicked at a rock near his toe, bouncing it off a rear tire. He dragged his feet on the way to the driver's seat.

This was going to be a _long_ ride back to DC.

* * *

**A/N:**_ I didn't have to exaggerate _too much _on the buzzard activity. Last week I saw buzzards strip a deer carcass from hair to bones in about 48 hours. WOW!  
_

_Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you think!_


	3. Talk the Talk

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Bones or anything else you recognize.

**Spoilers:** _Very_ mild for _TPITH_.

**A/N:** _Please see the notes after the chapter. I'm going to be busy for a couple of weeks, so I may not get the updates up in a timely fashion. Thanks for your continued readership and the great reviews! I love them and they make my day so much brighter!  
_

* * *

**Chapter 3: **Talk the Talk

* * *

He knew he couldn't close his eyes. Knew once he did they'd lock shut and he'd be blind.

He let the tears come. He focused on controlling his body, fighting the pain, trying to keep his breaths and heartbeat steady. He watched tears slide down his nose, mingle with the stream of snot pouring from his nostrils, and drip in long viscous strands to the ground. He had to move.

"Booth!"

He couldn't breathe.

Voices sounded around him. He could hear others gasping and cursing in pain.

His face was on fire. The chemical was spreading with his sweat, running down his forehead, into his eyes. He squinted, straining to keep his eyes open and focused.

"Booth! Can you hear me?" One voice. One familiar voice. His thread to grasp and concentrate on.

He tried sucking in air, but his throat closed. He gasped and his throat clogged with mucus. He feebly coughed to clear his airway, spewing forth a thin stream of slime. His diaphragm spasmed as his body tried to breathe, cough, and vomit simultaneously.

He stepped toward the voice, disoriented. It wasn't coming from where he remembered it being just moments before.

"I'm right here Booth! Just follow my voice."

He turned to his left and started to stumble across the hot pavement, fighting through the burning, the tears, the pain. He told his legs to move, to get him to the voice. His eyes slammed shut and all he could see was the red of sunlight filtering through his closed lids.

His foot connected with a tire and he wobbled, off balance, his hand tightly covering his sidearm. He almost fell, but righted himself, dizzy and hypoxic. He gasped again, drawing in another breath, the burning spreading through his lungs. It wasn't as bad this time, at least that's what he told himself.

"Booth, pick up your right leg," the voice called to him and he complied, freeing himself from the obstacle, starting to work through the fog. "Okay, you're clear. Keep coming. There you go!"

Booth moved quicker now, still fighting to open his eyes, each breath coming easier than the last. He told himself it was only the length of a basketball court—he could run that in a few seconds—he would be clear soon.

"You're almost there, Booth. Just a few more feet. Come to your left."

Booth stumbled the last few feet until he felt his partner's hand on his shoulder. He raised his right hand and wrapped his fingers around the chain link fence next to him. He'd made it.

"I've got you. Just hold still and I'll help you get decontaminated."

Booth relaxed and let his partner—his Bones—run cool water over his head as he tried to control his breathing. After several minutes he opened his blurry eyes and could hold the hose himself.

"You got it?" she asked and he nodded an affirmative. Booth reached up and grabbed the hose with his free left hand.

He sputtered as he tried to rinse out his mouth and nostrils. His right hand shook while he scrubbed at his hair under the cool—blessedly cool—stream poured over his head. He lost track of time, but he knew he'd been under the water for a long time.

He hated OC spray training, hated that he had to refresh what it was like to get a full dose of pepper spray in the face and still try to get out of harm's way while partially incapacitated. He was grateful that he didn't have to do it but every three years. And he was grateful that his Bones was there to help him out.

He spat out another stream of water and managed a single hoarse word.

"Ss-soap."

Brennan reached out and tapped his shoulder and he released the hose—it stayed within easy reach as it had been run through the chain link fence—she squeezed out a liberal amount of yellow baby shampoo onto his head and he started to scrub with both hands. He worked the soap into a thick lather, let it run into his eyes, over his face and shoulders. He rinsed again, his wet clothes clinging to his muscular frame. He spat and blinked his eyes—they were still blurry, like he was underwater, the eyelids and the eye itself were dried out and irritated from the spray. His breath was coming easier now. He shook his head like a dog, slinging water droplets in every direction. His skin still burned.

"More soap?" Brennan asked.

He nodded vigorously.

She poured more of the thick yellow goo onto his head and smiled at the "tearless" claims of the label. He rubbed the soap into and around his ears, scrubbed at his hair—again—scratched his nails through his eyebrows, dug at his clenched eyes, and ran open hands over his face and neck.

He reached up for the hose and Brennan asked him, "You want me to help with your eyes?"

Booth paused, knowing this was coming and he again nodded, straightening so she could have better access to his face. Brennan snapped the lid closed on the shampoo bottle and set it next to her feet.

"Look down."

Booth tipped his chin toward his chest, eyes still clenched.

"You ready?" Brennan asked.

"Mm-hmm."

Brennan reached up and touched Booth's face, lifting his right eyelid gently while Booth worked soap _into_ his eye, under the lid. He whined and his knees buckled slightly, then they moved to his left eye, repeating the procedure. She helped him rinse off. He cupped his hands together while she filled them with water to rinse the last of the suds out of his eyes.

"Feeling better?" Brennan asked, her lips inches from his ear.

"A little," he offered the best smile he could under the circumstances. "I forgot how much this crap hurts! It's been a while. And last time I don't think it had the CS in it." Booth stood and breathed—almost normal by now, the effects of the pepper spray on his airways were dissipating. His skin was still red and warm. "My back burns."

"That's completely normal, Oleoresin Capsicum is an oil and as such is not water soluble. Large amounts of water will flush it from your skin, but it could have been flushed from your hair onto your back and clothes. If you want to get it off your back you'll have to take off your shirt and scrub. You can do it here or wait until you can get in a shower."

"I can wait so long as I can get rid of this shirt." Booth stated quickly as he peeled off his now soaked sleeveless athletic shirt and leaned forward in an attempt to keep the water and oil from running down his back and into his pants.

Booth opened his eyes and caught Brennan staring at him. He grinned his charm smile. "Enjoying the scenery?"

Brennan smiled back at him, stepped close, and lowered her voice so only he could hear. "And if I was?"

Booth was suddenly thankful his face was already red from the heat of the OC spray so Brennan wouldn't see that he was blushing.

* * *

Booth had been cleared by the medic on scene and was waiting for Brennan near the opened rear of his SUV. He knew he couldn't drive home—his eyes were still red rimmed and runny—but he wasn't going to spend any more time in the passenger seat than was absolutely necessary. He watched Brennan approach the vehicle while talking on her cell phone. Booth eavesdropped on her side of the conversation.

"No, Zack... Agent Booth is fine... I'll be driving him back to his apartment to recuperate. I _am_ a very good driver... No, I'm not afraid of the engineering of the roads... Or the vehicle. Zack, I've been in war zones, I'll be fine. Thank you for the update, Zack." Brennan flipped her phone shut and slid it into her jacket pocket.

Booth opened his mouth to inquire about the conversation when the radio in his truck crackled with traffic. Brennan remained near the rear of the vehicle, observing Booth using the radio.

"22705, 22760."

It was Charlie calling from his unit. Booth closed the rear hatch and moved to the driver's side of the truck. He opened the door, reached for the mic, and responded in one fluid movement.

She found it interesting that many of the agents and other law enforcement personnel she'd seen had a common link through the use of the radios. The lingo varied slightly depending on the department or locality, but the majority was the same. It had so many substituted words and phrases that it was almost its own language. Even the way Booth leaned halfway into the vehicle while talking was the same posture the others had. His head, neck, and shoulders were slightly curved, looking down. His eyes were unfocused. His right arm rested on the seat, supporting his upper body. His left arm rested on the steering wheel with the mic held in his palm, his thumb lay along the head of the mic and the first two fingers keyed the mic to transmit. When he spoke his voice was neutral; flat and even.

She wondered if the posture and tone of voice was something they were taught, or something they picked up from each other after spending so much time together. It was a very interesting question, anthropologically speaking, of course.

"22705; go ahead 22760."

"10-20?"

"The parking lot." Booth responded.

"You 10-6?"

"Not really. Getting ready to go decontaminate. You need to signal 8?"

"Nah, was just checking on you. You looked like you got hit pretty hard and weren't answering your Tx." Charlie drew out the letters like a word, tee-ex.

"Yeah, I can't find it. I think they emptied an MK-4 on my face."

Charlie continued, Booth could hear someone laughing in the background. Several someones. He had an audience—not to mention anyone could hear the exchange on the radio.

"You take care of yourself. 10-43, it's your _partner's_ turn for the wet t-shirt contest tomorrow." Charlie's tone was starting to change, a hint of amusement evident in his voice.

Booth frowned, but never changed from his monotone. "Thanks for the reminder. 22705, clear."

Booth heard Charlie sign off his radio with a laugh as he turned around to face Brennan.

* * *

Brennan smiled at Booth when he turned around. "A wet t-shirt contest, huh?"

"Bones, I don't know why he said that."

"It's perfectly normal, Booth. It's his way of vying for dominance by trying to belittle your prowess."

Booth looked confused. "But he wasn't talking about _me._ He was talking about _you._"

"Yes, he was, but in doing so he was making you uncomfortable. He may have been making a comment about me, but you were definitely the target of the teasing."

"We're adults. We work for the FBI. We do _not_ tease."

"Okay, then, ridicule."

"Let's not go that far. Stick with the teasing." Booth climbed into the passenger seat as Brennan started the engine and started toward his place.

"Bones?"

Brennan turned her head slightly to acknowledge him while keeping her eyes on the road.

"Have you ever been in a wet t-shirt contest?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Well, because, I um... guys are going to..." he fumbled for the right words.

"The other FBI agents are going to look at my breasts through my wet t-shirt?" She offered.

"There's that. Yeah."

"It's okay, Booth. There's a perfectly reasonable anthropo—."

Booth cut her off. "Oh no! No. You are _not_ allowed to do that."

"Do what?" She answered innocently.

"Spout off about the anthropological reasons people do things. Sometimes I'd like to think there's more to human civilization than the need to, as you would put it, 'perpetuate the species' or 'establish dominance.' I'd like to believe that we've worked past that. At least long enough to do something other than_ breed_."

Brennan smiled. He was definitely feeling better if he wanted to argue about anthropology.

"Then do you have a better explanation for why males enjoy looking at females covered in soaked clothing?"

Booth sat quietly for a few minutes, not answering.

Brennan pulled into the parking spot in front of Booth's building and leaned in next to his ear. He felt his skin tingle and he wasn't sure if it was from the capsaicin or from her proximity.

She whispered softly, "I win."

She quickly hopped out of the SUV as Booth called after her. "You didn't win!"

"I won!"

Booth scrambled out of the Tahoe."Just because I haven't come up with an answer yet doesn't mean you won!"

"I so totally won!" She turned to grin at him and walked towards his door, stopping to retrieve the key from his hide-a-key rock.

He slid up beside her, and rested his hand on the small of her back. "What makes you think you're coming inside?"

"If you think a conversation about you being afraid to look at my breasts is going to scare me off, you have another thing coming." She turned to face him, his hand still on her back.

Booth locked eyes with Brennan and she realized she was making him uncomfortable. "Do you want me to leave?"

Booth stared at her for several moments, then smiled. "Never."

* * *

**A/N: **_I'm sure the FBI's dialect of 10-codes and "signals" are slightly different from what I use, but they're probably close enough. Here is a translation of the ones I used here, in case you were wondering:_

_**10-20:** Location (also heard as "What's your 20?")_

_**10-6: **Busy/engaged_

_**Signal 8: **meet up/ have a meeting_

_**10-43: **FYI—usually heard on my radio as "For Your 10-43", which is redundant, but I gave up on that fight long ago._

_**Tx: **telephone/cell phone_

_**Unit:** vehicle (sometimes also called a **commission**)_

_Note on the spray: OC (pepper) spray comes in various concentrations and blends, in this story Booth was hit with a blend of OC (10 percent) and CS/CN (tear gas), which is used by many Law Enforcement agencies. MK-4 is a standard size of OC spray that many LE personnel carry on tactical belts._


	4. Weather Forecast for Tonight: Dark

**Disclaimer:** Unfortunately they're not mine. The closest I have is the DVDs.

**A/N:** _I feel like I started out pretty strong with this series, then dropped off. Hopefully this installment brings it back a bit, even if the title is a little "off" (you'll see why). Please let me know what you think. Also, I am posting while tired, so if it's not formatted exactly right, please forgive me._

_Enjoy!_

* * *

**Part 4:** Weather Forecast for Tonight: Dark

* * *

It was barely past seven on Friday night when Seeley Booth peered into his refrigerator for something to eat. Two bottles of lemon lime sports drink, seven partially deflated oranges, half a gallon jug of milk, and an empty pizza box stared back at him.

He closed the door and sighed. He told himself he was _not_ going to bother Bones again. Not tonight. They'd spent nearly every night together for the past week, at his place—pizza night on Monday—at the lab, or at her apartment. He knew she'd want some time alone; time to work on her book or just to relax.

But that didn't stop him from pacing around his apartment, running his fingers through his hair and wondering what she was doing. He flopped down on his couch only to toss and turn for several minutes before letting out an aggravated noise and pulling himself to his feet. He grabbed his keys and was out the door before he could talk himself out of the decision.

* * *

Brennan stared at her laptop's screen as line after line of scientific language appeared on the screen, as if someone else was typing it. She was sure her editors would simply throw it back at her for a rewrite, but right now she couldn't concentrate enough to work on the character development between Kathy and Andy. It had been a long week—no investigations, just cases from limbo—and she needed a minute to work on things away from the lab. Booth promised that after several nights of sitting around and eating takeout he would give her some privacy.

Of course, now by herself she was lonely. It was a new sensation for her. She'd been alone many times in her life without feeling this way—solitude was a friend to her.

She looked again at the text on her screen. Even to _her_ it was very squinty, as Booth would say. She hit 'save' and closed the lid. She stood and stretched, then decided the apartment was entirely too quiet by herself, so she turned on the television to chase away the silence.

She flipped through the channels for a few minutes until she found something promising. A gray-haired, balding man dressed in black was standing on a stage with a backdrop of a cityscape. He expounded on how human beings were the only species who murder or who kill for pleasure. He went on to discuss genocide, mass graves, and various types of tortures used throughout history. It was very interesting and she found herself immediately absorbed in the discourse.

After several minutes she heard a knock at the door and she pulled herself away from the program to answer the door.

"Booth!" She fought the smile that spread across her face at the grin on his. Booth stood in her doorway bearing a package of Thai take out. "What are you doing here?" She stepped aside, let him into the apartment, and closed the door behind him. She noticed his jacket and hair were spotted with rain.

"Oh, I was in the neighborhood, thought you might like some company. What are you doing?" He set the box of food on the counter while Brennan started pulling plates out of the cupboard.

"Watching a program on the basics of human society," she gestured at the television. "It's rather dark and a little vulgar, but it's still quite interesting."

The man on the on the screen was now talking about how human DNA hadn't changed significantly in over sixteen thousand years and humans today were substantially no different from Cro-Magnon people—Early Modern Humans, she mentally corrected—eating grubs off rotted logs.

"Bones," Booth started, a little incredulous. "That's not an anthropologist. That's George Carlin."

"Oh. Is he a sociologist then?" Brennan asked in all seriousness, still dishing up their meals.

"Um, not exactly. He's kind of one of the most influential comedians of all time."

"Oh. Well, that explains the language, then," she popped a piece of broccoli in her mouth.

"Yeah. He's pretty funny, but could we please turn it? I've seen this one and he'll start in on the Catholics in a minute and I _really_ don't want to give you any more ammunition." He walked into the living room.

"I have plenty of bullets, Booth," Brennan pulled utensils out of the drawer.

"Not for your gun, Bones." Booth found the remote and turned the station to the local news. The big story of the night was the series of thunderstorms moving through the area. He returned to the kitchen and finished helping Brennan with their meal. He pulled two glasses from the cupboard and checked the fridge for drinks. He grimaced at the vegan almond milk on the top shelf and pulled out fruit juice instead. He filled the glasses and placed them on the table.

"I brought a couple of movies, I wasn't sure if you'd be up for them or not." Brennan assured him she'd love to watch a movie, even if it was a movie about pirates. She was especially interested in the stereotypical portrayal of the subculture.

Booth sat on Brennan's left in what he now felt was his usual place since they'd watched that hockey game months ago.

They ate in silence for several minutes, Booth laughing at the appropriate moments, and Brennan mesmerized by the animation of the skeletons on screen. When they were finished Booth quietly gathered their empty plates and placed them in the kitchen sink.

When he returned he stretched out his right arm and laid it across the back of the couch, his elbow bent and his hand raised in the air. He flexed his fingers a few times and Brennan looked at him quizzically.

"My arm hurts. I'm just trying to keep things moving," the corner of his mouth twitched in a slightly apologetic smile. She rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the screen. She slowly shifted to rest her right elbow on the armrest nearest to her and propped her head up on her hand. When she did this her shirt pulled up, exposing the skin at her waist, and the waistband of her panties poked out from the top of her jeans.

Booth noticed this. He fought with himself, telling himself it was unprofessional to stare. Unprofessional to be surprised that she would be wearing normal cotton underwear on a quiet Friday when she wasn't expecting any _special_ company. Unprofessional to realize that somehow this was better than anything lacey. He forced himself to look back at the television and breathe normally. He didn't realize his breath was ragged sounding until Brennan turned to asked him if he was okay.

"Uh. Yeah. I'm fine. Just a little—"

The lights flickered once, then the room went black and silent. Booth silently prayed his thanks to any saint who would hear him.

"That's not good," Booth stated. He could see Brennan still staring at him when lightning flashed outside the window.

"Wow that was—" Brennan was cut off by a clap of thunder that made her duck involuntarily. "Close," she finished.

Booth reached into his pocket for his lighter and lit one of the candles Brennan had on the end table. He grinned at her, "Always prepared for anything. We _do_ make a good team." Brennan smiled and stood to find the small weather radio she kept in the kitchen while Booth continued lighting candles in the living room.

Brennan tuned the small radio to a news channel to get an idea of how bad the storm was. She stood looking out the window, trying to see the dark street below. She had trouble focusing through the foggy glass of the window. The rainfall had increased and when the lightning flashed again Brennan realized the gray in the window was rain, not fog. She couldn't even see the edge of her balcony.

"Booth, I think you should stay here tonight."

Booth's head snapped up and he stared wide-eyed at Brennan until the lighter in his hand grew hot and singed his fingers, bringing his attention back to the task at hand. He cursed softly and stuck his burned fingers in his mouth. "What?" He choked out.

"The rain. It's coming down pretty hard out there and without any traffic lights, you probably won't be home until morning anyway. You might as well stay here and get some sleep."

"Uh. Okay," he glanced at his watch. "It's only ten-thirty. I'm not really tired yet. I could probably make it home without much trouble—" he looked at her and in the soft light of the candles he saw that she was asking him to stay as much for her own ease of mind as for his safety. "But you're right. It would be better for me to stay." She smiled at his acceptance and he felt a level of relief at this.

"Great. I'll go get the bed ready for you." Brennan turned to walk away.

"What?" Booth asked, shocked and confused.

"The guest bed. For you to sleep on," she pointed at the guest room.

"Oh!" Booth sounded relieved.

"Why? What did you think I was asking?" Brennan cocked her head to the side.

"Nothing!" His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. "Nothing. Do what you were doing." He offered a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

While she was gone Booth went to the kitchen to clean up for when the power did come back on. He thought of what they could do to pass the time until they were both tired enough for sleep and an idea formed in his head. He opened the pantry and rummaged around. He found a package of marshmallows and chocolate striped cookies, most likely from when Brennan's nieces last visited, and a smile spread across his face.

He gathered up the sugary snacks and fished out a pair of chopsticks from the bag of takeout before returning to the living room. He placed the items on the coffee table next to the large candle already burning there.

When Brennan returned and stood next to the couch she smiled at Booth drumming along to the radio with the chopsticks. He scooted over to make room for her to sit next to him.

"What is this, Booth?"

"What's it look like, Bones?" he gestured with the chopsticks. "We're camping."

"Camping?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah! No power, crappy weather, tiny little battery-powered radio. We're definitely camping. Might as well make the most of it, right?" She looked at him quizzically, as if she had no idea what he was getting at. He sighed dramatically and skewered one marshmallow with a chopstick to demonstrate. He used the chopstick to hold the marshmallow over the candle's tiny flame. Once the marshmallow was browned and gooey he sandwiched it between two of the striped cookies. He held it out for Brennan to inspect.

"See? S'mores. Urban s'mores," he grinned triumphantly and waited for her to take a bite.

Brennan wiped a crumb and melted chocolate off her lip and smiled at him. "Only you, Booth, would think up something like this." She stabbed her own marshmallow onto her chopstick to follow his lead.

"Hey, I have a six-year-old. You've _got_ to have a backup plan for entertainment." He bit into the rest of the sticky sandwich, trying in vain to limit the crumbs dropped on his shirt.

Brennan shook her head and concentrated on the task at hand. She stared at the marshmallow on the end of her stick intently, making sure she didn't let it burn. Booth watched her and smiled at how she could so effortlessly handle remains, but something like this took her full concentration.

Brennan finished making her own s'more silently and, after the first bite, spoke.

"When I was about seven or eight, Mom and Dad took Russ and me on a camping trip somewhere up north. I don't remember where, but I remember doing this," she looked at the candles. "Okay, maybe not _this_, but close enough." She looked at Booth, "I think it was a little rainy then, too. Russ and Mom got sick and we had to go home early, but I remember Dad staying up with me all night eating marshmallows and teaching me the constellations. It was really nice." Her mouth worked in an expression that wasn't quite smile or frown. "This is really nice, Booth. Thank you."

Booth felt a tightness in his chest as he watched the candle's reflection dance in his partner's eyes. He held her gaze for a few moments before reaching out to tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear. Her lids drooped from what he hoped was only fatigue.

"You're very welcome. Thank _you_ for putting up with me tonight," he spoke softly. His hand lingered for a moment too long and he pulled away. He stared for a few more seconds before clearing his throat.

"Why don't you go get ready for bed and I'll get this cleaned up," Booth asked. Brennan blinked hard and then nodded and moved down the hall to the bathroom. He watched her retreating form and sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face.

He was _definitely _not getting any sleep, no matter what she said.

* * *

**A/N 2:**

_Good night, (angry) funny man. You affected my life in so many ways. I sure hope you got your two minutes._

_Also, to mention something **gabrielleavitt **brought up in a review: if we learn from season 2 that there is a spare room at Brennan's apartment, why have someone sleep on the couch? Rather than say _I FORGOT _since I just finished rewatching the second season—and I also established its existence in this universe in chapter 2—__ I fixed it as best I could. I hope it's okay. Thanks for calling me out on that.  
_


	5. You Look Good in My Shirt

**Disclaimer:** As always, if you recognize it, I don't own it.

**A/N: **_I had a cooler title in mind, but it wouldn't fit in the box. So, instead of a Butthole Surfers reference, you get Keith Urban. Sorry. It's a _little_ different from the others in the series, so I hope you like it! It's pretty fluffy. You've been warned._

* * *

**Chapter 5:** You Look Good in My Shirt

* * *

Special Agent Seeley Booth lounged in his bed, arm curled protectively around his wife, the fingers of their left hands entwined. He gently traced the outline of her ring with his thumb. It was so like her to eschew any kind of traditional metal and opt for titanium. Temperance Brennan insisted the symbolism of gold—a malleable metal that would, in time, mold to the wearer's hand like two people in a marriage mold to each other—was outdated. She instead chose titanium for their rings. Of course, she had to analyze it with scientific reasoning. She argued the tough metal was more befitting their relationship—exceptionally strong, able to withstand intense stresses, and it didn't weight them down.

He, on the other hand, was happy that he could wear his ring while working on cars and not worry about damaging the metal.

He nuzzled the back of her neck, kissing behind her ear and along her jawline. He released her fingers and gently slid his hand under her night shirt—one of his FBI t-shirts—and smiled at how he now had to stretch his hand to cover her growing belly. He was amazed at how quickly she had grown from a barely noticeable bulge to an unmistakable bump. She'd only recently grown to the point where she could no longer wear her regular night clothes and had absconded with a pair of his boxer shorts—this pair was dotted with chili peppers—since the wide elastic band didn't dig into the soft skin of her abdomen.

He thought she was much more attractive in his clothes than in any negligee, but he'd never tell her that. He was sure if he did she'd launch into an explanation of the anthropological or biological reasons for the increased attraction, or she'd comment on his alpha male tendencies, or something else entirely that would spoil the effect. He loved that her mind was always working, but he also loved her wearing his clothes to bed, so he remained silent.

Temperance started to stir when he heard a voice call him from down the hall.

"Hey Dad! Dad!"

Booth felt a small hand tap at his knee.

"Dad?"

Booth mumbled a response, the dream fading away, leaving him partially awake and gripping at his pillow. He cracked open one eye to find Parker grinning back at him.

"What are we doing today?"

Booth focused on the green LED clock on his dresser. It was close enough to time to get up, even if he wanted to finish that dream. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes momentarily before responding with a sleep-slurred voice.

"After breakfast I thought we'd go the park, maybe visit a museum, then tonight we'll go see the fireworks. What do you think?" Parker's birthday was still several days away, but since Booth's weekend with him coincided with Independence Day, they were celebrating early.

Parker shook his head and stuck out his tongue. "No museums."

Booth smiled. "I promise, you'll like this one. I asked Dr. Bones to come with us."

At the sound of Brennan's nickname Parker grinned a perfect copy of his father's charm smile. "I like Dr. Bones!"

Booth smiled back, "I thought so. She'll be here soon, so we've got to get moving."

Booth sat up and stretched, his right shoulder letting out a gunshot _pop_ when his arm straightened overhead. Parker scrunched up his face in a combination of confusion and disgust.

"What was that?"

Booth dropped his arms, rubbing at his right chest and shoulder with his left hand. "That was me. Remember, I got hurt at work. I'm better now, but sometimes my shoulder makes noise."

The almost-seven-year-old cocked his head and looked at his father as if to say something very profound.

"That's gross, Dad."

"Thanks, I know." Booth stood up and herded his son towards the kitchen. "We gotta get something to eat. What sounds good?"

"Frosted Flakes!"

_Yup. That's my kid. Sugar first thing to start the morning._

"Kay, Bub. Hop up."

Booth poured Parker his cereal then, with a shrug, poured a bowl for himself, smiling at the image of Tony the Tiger on the front of the box. The cartoon's name gave him a momentary flashback to Las Vegas and his partner's little red dress. He set the box down and retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator. When he turned back to the table he found Parker working on the puzzles on the back of the cereal box. Parker looked up at his father and showed him the solution to one.

"Good job! You figured that out pretty fast, didn't you?" Booth poured milk on the cereal.

Parker bobbed his head and set the box down on the tabletop, "Yup. I'm good at puzzles. Like you."

Booth stared oddly at his son for a moment. "Like me, huh?" He put the milk back in the refrigerator.

"Yeah. When I'm grown up, I'm going figure out puzzles and catch bad guys—like you and Dr. Bones." Parker said this matter-of-factly; as if he were stating the obvious. Booth felt his chest tighten with pride and quickly picked his son up in a tight hug.

"Dad?" Parker squeaked out. "I can't _breathe,_" he wheezed dramatically.

"Alright, smart guy." Booth set Parker back in his seat and kissed the top of his head. There was a sharp rapping at the door and Booth walked over to let his partner into the apartment. He closed the door behind her, then moved back to the kitchen to make coffee.

Brennan was knocked back when Parker barreled into her legs. She smiled at the little boy's enthusiasm.

"Dr. Bones! Dad says we're going to go to the park, then a cool museum, and then watch fireworks! I'm _so_ excited!"

"Parker," Booth called his son back to the table. "We're not going anywhere before you eat." Parker ran back to his seat and eagerly dug into his breakfast.

Booth pulled two coffee cups from the cupboard and filled them before turning back to the table. Parker was excitedly telling Brennan about their plans for the day. Booth smiled at the domestic scene before sliding into his seat across from Brennan, his son between them.

"Dad? Can I ask you something?" Parker asked.

"Sure. What?" Booth stirred at his cereal to wet the flakes and looked at his son.

"Where do babies come from?" Parker looked at his father expectantly, happily munching on his Frosted Flakes.

Booth froze, mouth open, spoon halfway from his bowl to his mouth. A drop of milk dripped from his spoon back into the bowl. He set the spoon back in his bowl and cleared his throat. _Wow, this is a conversation I was hoping I wouldn't have for at least a few more years._

"W-why do you want to know?"

"Well, Mom asked what I wanted for my birthday and I told her that I wanted a brother to play with and she said I had to talk to you about it."

Brennan smirked at Booth's reluctance to talk about the topic. He was usually uptight talking about sex to adults, but she knew he had to be completely uncomfortable broaching the subject with his son.

Booth tried to come up with a way to quietly deflect the question. "Well, it takes a boy and girl, and Daddy doesn't know any girls who are interested right now." Booth hoped that would be enough to end the line of questioning, but he wasn't so lucky.

"What about Dr. Bones? She's a girl."

"She is, but, um," Booth looked at Brennan for some assistance and she only shrugged. Booth frowned. He hoped he would remember to give her a little payback for this later. "I'm not sure she's _that_ kind of girl."

Undeterred, Parker continued, slightly confused, "What kind of girl _is_ she?" Booth again looked to Brennan for help, swearing that Angela had been coaching the boy.

Brennan finally came to his aid, "Parker, why don't you finish up and get dressed so we can go to the park?"

This deflection worked, and Parker quickly drank the leftover milk out of his bowl and ran down the hall to change out of his Transformers pajamas.

Booth looked at Brennan, "Don't expect me to answer that for _you, _either."

Brennan only smiled behind her coffee cup.

Booth finished his cereal in silence, relieved to be free of _that_ line of questioning. While he was putting the empty bowls in the dishwasher he heard Parker call out from his bedroom.

"Dad! I got Optimus Prime stuck behind the dresser."

"I'll be there in a minute to get him." As Booth moved to help Parker he heard his son's voice call back.

"If I just had a piece of string and some gum, I know I could get him out."

Booth closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing out loud. He still shook in silent amusement.

"I've got it, Booth," Brennan stood and started toward Parker's room. "You finish getting dressed and I'll help him."

* * *

After retrieving the wayward Autobot from behind Parker's dresser, Brennan left him to finish getting dressed. She quietly knocked on Booth's door to check on his progress, and opened the unlatched door before he answered. The door swung open and she could see he'd already changed into jeans and was standing shirtless before his opened t-shirt drawer, his back to her.

She noted with a pang of guilt the shadow of a bruise and the raised bubble of new pink scar tissue on his shoulder from his now months-ago surgery. The wound was mostly healed and he'd long since been cleared for full duty, though he spent several hours a week at the shooting range. He insisted he'd lost much of his accuracy since he'd been injured and that worried him.

He selected a black shirt featuring a red image of a skull. On the skull's forehead there was a nautical star. She was sure this was from a comic book or movie, but she couldn't remember seeing it before. He quickly pulled the shirt over his head and she could read a web address for a book on the back.

Booth turned and made eye contact. Brennan felt heat rising in her face, fully aware she'd been caught staring at him. "I was just coming to see if you were ready yet. Parker's pretty excited to get going," she gestured over her shoulder with her thumb and she turned slighly. Booth walked to the door, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. He stood in front of her, one hand on the door jamb above her head, his body blocking her from escaping. Brennan froze in place as Booth leaned in close to her ear. Her heart fluttered as she inhaled the scent of his cologne.

"It's okay to admit you look," he winked and walked down the hall.

* * *

Booth and Brennan sat on a blanket in the grass of the park. It was late evening and the fireflies were just coming out to add nature's fireworks to the Independence Day celebration. Parker was sprawled across his father's lap, napping until the fireworks display started. Booth checked his watch to see he still had several minutes before he had to wake his son.

Parker had worn himself out with the day's activities—playing at the park, visiting the history exhibits at the Jeffersonian, and finishing up the afternoon at the planetarium. He'd been particularly interested in Brennan's explanation of the constellations so she helped him pick out a small starter guide to astronomy from the gift-shop.

"I think he had fun today," Booth started, his voice a soft whisper. "What do you think?"

Brennan looked at Parker's sleeping form and smiled. "Absolutely."

"What about you? Did you have fun?" his eyebrow lifted and he tilted his head inquisitively.

Brennan smiled, "I did. It's a shame that I spend so much time at the Jeffersonian, but I never really find the time to see any of the exhibits. Thank you for inviting me along."

"Oh, don't thank me. I think you'd have broken Parker's heart if you'd said no. He's crazy about you," Booth smiled at Brennan's self-conscious downward tilt of her chin.

"Did I tell you something you didn't already know?" he asked.

"I—" Brennan was interrupted by Parker's waking up and asking a sleepy question.

"Did I miss the fireworks?" he yawned.

"Nope," Booth helped him sit up. "You're just in time."

Parker rubbed at his eyes and got in position to see the display. Booth answered his questions about why people shot off fireworks to celebrate the country's independence and was a little surprised that Brennan didn't use this opportunity to teach Parker about the history of gunpowder, the national anthem, patriotism, or anything else.

When the first volley of explosions lit up the sky Parker clapped his hands over his ears, laughing. Booth looked at Brennan and was surprised to see her face showing a similar expression of joy to the one his son wore. Her eyes were wide and her lips slightly parted. He imagined she hadn't been much for fireworks with the family in many, many years.

Her legs were pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped around the front of her knees. He quietly put his arm around her for warmth. She didn't complain, but did relax and lean into him ever so slightly, her attention still on the lights overhead.

"It's beautiful, Booth."

He watched as the rainbow of colors illuminated her face and, without looking away from her, he responded, his breath moving a few strands of her hair against her cheek.

"Yeah. It is."

* * *

_Love me? Hate me? Want to throttle me for leaving it here? Click the little button and let me know. ;-)_


	6. Common Threads

**Disclaimer:** _As always, if you recognize it, I don't own it. If I did I would definitely be better off financially._

* * *

**Chapter 6:** Common Threads

* * *

Dr. Temperance Brennan leaned over the stainless steel examination table, squinting at the remains of a Jane Doe. She used a camera to magnify and examine several marks on the skeleton's pelvis. The enlarged imaged appeared on a large plasma screen next to the table. Special Agent Booth stood quietly nearby, watching her work, absently fiddling with a green and white poker chip. There was a time he would have made an insensitive comment regarding how the team spent their Friday nights. He'd spent enough time with them now to understand the level of commitment they each had in every case.

"Scarring on the ilium is congruent with bone marrow donation," Brennan pointed at several small indentations in the image. She turned to her assistant, Zack Addy. "Run a check through the national bone marrow donation database and see what you can find."

Zack nodded and moved away to start looking for the woman's identity. Brennan turned to Booth while peeling off her blue examination gloves. "If she donated marrow, we might be able to cross reference past donors with the missing persons database and find out who she is."

Booth nodded and tossed the chip in the air, catching it with ease. He shoved the chip into his hip pocket. "Good deal. What do we do until then?"

Brennan checked her watch. "I have to meet with the owner of a bookstore in an hour. I've got a book signing there soon and she wants to meet me before the crowds show up."

"Crowds?" Booth asked, amused.

"Yes. Now that the movie based on my book has begun filming my work has become quite popular." She removed her blue lab coat and headed toward her office, Booth following behind a few steps.

"When you get all big and famous, promise me you'll remember all us little people that got you there," he grinned.

"That could never happen." Brennan shuffled papers around the top of her desk and started tossing small items into her purse.

"Oh yeah?" Booth rested the knuckles of his balled up hands on the edge of her desk. He leaned in and waited expectantly for some sort of acknowledgment of his involvement in her life.

"Absolutely," she glanced at him before shutting down her computer. "I have a very good memory, so I'd have trouble forgetting you," she picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. "I could never get big, since I stopped growing when I was seventeen. _You_, on the other hand," she pointed a finger at his chest, causing him to stand up straighter. "Are by no definition a 'little' person." Brennan strode out of the office, leaving Booth standing near her desk.

Booth shook his head and threw his hands in the air in mock frustration. "Does _everything_ need to be interpreted so literally?"

* * *

After the short yet productive meeting with the bookstore owner, Cassandra Greene, Brennan and Booth decided to stay at the shop and enjoy the atmosphere. Brennan decided she liked the owner of the shop—unlike many of the people she dealt with during her book tours, the thirty-something woman didn't gush niceties to make Brennan feel more important than she was. She was direct, yet polite.

Brennan looked around the small bookstore café. The charismatic owner of _Cassandra's Crossing_ had been having trouble competing against larger chain bookstores and online retailers before finding a formula that worked for her as an independent retailer. Where other shops would go no further than offering a basic coffee shop inside the bookstore, Cassandra came at the business venture from a different angle.

She made her shop a community meeting place by offering displays from local starving artists, live acoustic music, a WiFi hot spot, and comfortable seating on overstuffed sofas and chairs. Brennan felt welcomed by the warm earth tones of the walls, the cozy furniture, and the soft light that was neither too bright nor too dim for reading. Brennan felt an odd sensation of pride at the thought that she was helping an underdog by coming here instead of the "Large Box" store a few blocks away.

Booth left her to pick a place to sit while he went to get them coffee. Giving into her inclinations to be an observer, Brennan started to people watch the shop's customers. Several people were crouched over notebook computers while others were reading. In one corner a man sat with his arm wrapped around a woman as they shared reading a travel magazine.

Booth ordered their drinks quickly and turned to watch his partner while leaning against the counter. He smiled at how she enjoyed people watching. He was pretty sure that she'd be irritated with him if she caught him staring at her, but he couldn't help himself. These past few months she seemed much more relaxed, more comfortable around him and with herself. He wouldn't admit it to anyone else, but he was happier with her around as well.

An uproar of laughter drew Brennan's attention to a group gathered around the nearby mock-living room. Seated there were about a dozen people, mostly women, obviously from various walks of life. They were sharing snacks, drinking coffee or tea, and each was working on some sort of a knitting project in various stages of completion. Some had books spread out on tables or the floor to help while learning the new skill.

One was a young woman with multiple facial piercings, pink-tinged cropped hair, torn jeans, and a Social Distortion t-shirt. Another was a young mother with a baby napping in a nearby stroller. An older professional—possibly a lawyer—sat with them, still in her office clothes. A college-aged man with dreadlocks was seated on the floor and leaning up against the sofa between the lawyer and the mother.

A blond baby-boomer wearing a multi-jeweled mother's ring leaned forward to help explain a pattern to the dread locked man's bohemian girlfriend. An athletic twenty-something stood and waggled her empty coffee cup in the air, asking if anyone else wanted a refill while she was up. A middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair nodded and attempted to give her money and she dismissed him.

Though all were different ethnicities, education levels, incomes, backgrounds, ages, and genders, they had one thing in common: their shared hobby. It was the equalizer in this group. Brennan pondered this.

The skill was one that had been passed down from generation to generation for thousands of years; used to clothe families; to earn income; as a kitschy craft; as an art form. It had once been a necessity of life, but in modern society—a consumer-driven, technology-based society, where a person could easily go days without physically interacting with another human being, she noted—it brought people back to their roots. Gave them a tangible connection to others and, she realized, their pasts. It also allowed people to socialize, share knowledge, and pass on a skill on to others.

She was drawn out of her thoughts by a hand sliding across her shoulder. She turned her head up and toward her partner, grinning as he set a large steaming cup in front of her.

"I got you one of those weird organic _oy vey_ lattes you like so much. They're still making mine. I'll be right back."

"It's _soy chai_," she corrected and he winked at her. She pressed her lips together to avoid smiling and encouraging him.

She turned her head to watch him go back to the bar to pick up his coffee, stopping to add a small amount of cream and a large amount of sugar. Booth turned and walked back to their table, blowing across the top of his cup to cool the drink. She shook her head as he slid into the seat to her right.

"What?" he asked at her smile.

"Nothing," she picked up the warm cup in front of her and took a sip, careful not to burn herself.

As she placed the cup back on the table, her attention was momentarily grabbed by the group of knitters again—they were sharing some kind of inside joke at a pair of horribly mismatched socks—and Booth reached out to pinch at Brennan's elbow.

"Ow! Hey!" she swatted lightly at his hand as he pulled it away quickly, feigning innocence.

"Where were you?" Booth asked.

"When?" Brennan looked confused.

"Just now. You went all spacey on me."

Brennan shook her head. "Nowhere. I was just thinking about," she thought for a second, then decided not to explain. "Nothing major."

Booth followed her gaze to the group of friends. He turned to her, his brow wrinkled with concern. "You're not about to go all squinty on me are you? Tell me all about Andean folk knitting or something, are you?"

Brennan shifted in her seat and Booth recognized that she was about to launch into a lengthy—if educational—tirade.

"According to legend, in the Aran Islands specific sweater patterns were used to identify bodies of drowned seaman. While that's not true, the patterns were likely representative of wishes for a fruitful day of fishing. On the Tequile Island located in Lake Titicaca men knit chulos—hats with earflaps—in various colors to identify the wearer as a bachelor or as a married man. Bachelors knit themselves a chulo with the bottom knit in red and white motifs, while the tops are white with a red tassel. For their wedding day and after, grooms knit a chulo that's entirely red. In Scotland—"

Booth chuckled and Brennan stopped talking.

"What?" She asked, confused at his laughter.

"Doesn't your brain ever shut off?" though the question seemed serious, his tone was light. He had to force himself to not crack a joke about Lake Titicaca, knowing this would only lead her to compare him to Dr. Sweets.

"Biologically, that would be impossible," she stated.

His mouth quirked in a teasing smile. "I swear, you talk like that and I hear," Booth imitated the sounds of a computer's processor, including small gestures for blinking lights, finishing with a laugh.

"You're just jealous because I can multi task," Brennan leaned toward Booth and pointed her right index finger in his face. Early in their partnership that gesture was confrontational, but, like his nickname for her, it had become a sign of endearment.

"Oh, I can do _lots_ of things at once." One eyebrow flicked upward to emphasize his remark. He turned in his seat, reached up ,and grasped her pointed finger with his entire right hand, his elbow resting on the table. Brennan made a show of trying to pull away without making any actual effort to free her hand from his.

"Uh, oh, can't get away. Whatcha gonna do now, Bones?" his smile grew wider as he teased her softly while pulling her hand down toward him.

"This!" Brennan reached out with her free hand and tickled the exposed area under Booth's curled arm. He yelped and immediately dropped her hand, which gave her greater ability to continue tickling him. He half-heartedly swatted at her as he scooted his chair back a few inches to get away from her harassment. She continued to poke and prod at his sides before he finally reached up and grabbed both of her wrists. They stayed in that position, both of them still laughing.

They suddenly fell silent as they each realized how close they were. How their noses were almost touching. How Brennan's hands were nearly in Booth's lap. How if Booth were to just drop his chin a _little_ bit they would be—

An abrupt thump to their table knocked Booth's cup over, spilling hot brown liquid across the tabletop, splashing onto Booth's arm, and dripping onto his lap. Booth immediately released Brennan's wrists and stood up while she reached for napkins to mop up the mess. A young man carrying an old army-surplus backpack apologized profusely and tried to help clean up the table. Brennan assured him it was an accident and nothing to get worried about.

Booth wiped at his pants, muttering about how it wasn't _her_ pants with a large coffee stain in an inappropriate area.

They cleaned up the table and Booth announced that it was a good time to go home and change clothes. Brennan shouldered her purse and the pair started toward the door, Booth still mumbling about the stain on his lap. He backed through the door and held it open for Brennan. She brushed up against Booth's chest as she passed by him. He fell into step beside her and snaked his right arm around her waist. Brennan responded by bumping him playfully in the chest with her shoulder.

"Angela is going to have a field day once she hears that our evening ended with you needing to get out of your pants."

Booth shook his head with an expression on his face that was halfway between a smile and a frown. He pulled her closer and slid his palm along her upper arm before speaking.

"You've already gotten me out of my shirt. You just can't leave it alone, can you?" he hoped that by turning around the teasing she would stop. When she didn't immediately respond he knew he'd either gotten her, or he was going to need some aloe after her very painful burn of a comeback.

What he wasn't expecting was her to agree with him.

"Well, as I've told you before, you appear to be a good choice in a mate—your features are symmetrical, you are physically fit, you pay very close attention to the needs of those around you." She paused for a breath. "And you definitely are a good father."

"So you're saying you think I'd be a good mate?" Booth asked, the smile evident in his voice.

Brennan answered, still smiling. "Yeah." She turned her head to face him. "Maybe I am."

* * *

**A/N:** _I stayed up most of the night working on a different chapter, realized I didn't like it at all, and decided to come back to this one. That's when I realized I'd accidentally nuked half the story due to a file copy error and spent most of the last week doing a rewrite and it's not exactly what I had before. Grr. In any case, I hope you liked it. _

_After double-checking my formatting when I uploaded, something went wonky and I had the section breaks in entirely the wrong places so I had to reupload. Good times._

_I have about 3 more chapters I want to write for this series. Of course, that may change if the muse visits with something I hadn't planned on. After that I might have a sequel, depending on the response. :-)  
_


	7. Pieces of the Past

Anthropologically Speaking

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Bones_ or anything else you recognize. I do, however, have some lovely rain forest-friendly coffee that I'm willing to share.

_Thank you everyone for the fantastic reviews. I think I have caught up on responding to everyone. They make my day and are greatly appreciated._

* * *

**Chapter 7: **Pieces of the Past

* * *

Booth lay in bed staring wide-eyed into the darkness to where the ceiling should be above him. He drummed his fingers on his bare chest. He knew he needed to sleep before Rebecca dropped Parker off in the morning, but he was unable to get his mind to slow down enough even for fitful sleep.

He blew air out between his lips and rolled over, wondering silently how he got into a situation where his partner was only a few feet away in the next room and he still hadn't found the courage to tell her why he didn't want her to go back to her apartment. He blinked several times and thought back to how he got here.

* * *

Brennan lay in bed staring wide-eyed into the darkness to where the wall should be beside her. She pulled the worn patchwork quilt off her shoulders and down to her waist while rolling onto her side. She suddenly felt very warm in the small room and she blamed the heat for her sleeplessness.

She pulled a pillow over her face and inhaled deeply. It smelled like _him_ and he was so close—just a few feet away in the next room. She mentally kicked herself for being so afraid to tell him what he meant to her, for being unable to tell him she was relieved to not go back to her apartment just yet. She pulled the pillow from her face and thought back to how she got here.

* * *

The case had been hard on them, much harder than any others lately.

They'd flown to Indiana to investigate a partial skeleton found along a stretch of highway along the Indiana-Ohio state line. A highway construction crew unearthed the remains while building a new bridge. The local coroner was able to determine cause of death and went so far as checking into dental records, but was unable to do much due to the condition of the remains.

When Brennan first started working on the case she discovered not only were the remains of a cab driver named Thomas Martin, but Martin's body had been in the concrete beneath the highway bridge since it was built in the 1950s. Further investigation revealed Martin had been murdered by a fare he'd taken one night decades before.

His killer, a man named Ed Frasher, had been on leave from the Army while he was stationed in Kentucky. Frasher went to his home in Indiana to visit his parents, killed Martin for the one hundred seventy-three dollars he had that night, disposed of Martin's body at the highway construction site, and stole the car.

Frasher was nineteen years old at the time of the murder.

He was now the grandfather of six.

The small northern Indiana community where Frasher had lived for the past thirty years as a church leader and factory foreman had been greatly shaken by the news that one of their own was a murderer hiding in plain sight.

While both Booth and Brennan were proud to give Martin's loved ones closure on his disappearance, they were distressed by the reaction of Frasher's family. A killer had been brought to justice, but at the cost of losing the man they loved. When Booth arrested Frasher, the older man broke down and sobbed, relieved to no longer keep the terrible secret that followed him through life.

And now they found themselves grounded at Indianapolis International Airport at eight o'clock on a Friday night. Indiana had been experiencing a series of severe rainstorms for weeks. The latest produced high winds and heavy rains and conditions not conducive to aircraft staying in the air. The last report was that they'd be there for only a few hours, but that had been hours ago.

The airport seat had a soft plush fabric cover over top of thin padding that barely cushioned Brennan's back and bottom from the tubular steel frame underneath. She shifted uncomfortably in the stiff red-and-gray striped seat while Booth went in search of anything hot and caffeinated. She pulled out a set of headphones and started listening to a lecture series from the American Anthropological Association on her iPod. She leaned back into the seat with closed eyes. After several minutes she leaned forward, grimaced at the twinge between her scapulae, and rubbed at her neck with her left hand.

"You okay?" Booth asked, returning with two cups of Starbucks in his hands. Brennan clicked the iPod off, stored it in the bag at her feet and reached for the paper cup Booth held out for her.

She smiled, trying to downplay the stiffness in her back from being seated for most of the day. "I'm fine. Just a little sore."

Booth sat next to her, motioning for her to turn while he set his coffee on the nearby table. He reached up while she was taking a sip of her coffee and started massaging away the tension in her neck. She initially tensed at his touch.

"Booth, I don't need you to—"

"Shh. Yes you do." He gently brushed her hair aside with one hand as the other slid across her shoulders, finding the inflamed, hot areas in her muscles. He gently put pressure on the hot spots as if he were wiping them away with gentle pressure from the side of his hand.

Her head fell forward as he worked out all the kinks and knots from the past few days. She finally placed the paper cup somewhere safe from spillage once her fatigued muscles started to relax. Booth's hands moved down her back to her lumbar region and her abdominal muscles involuntarily tightened as he hit a ticklish spot on her sides. Booth snickered at her reaction.

"That's not funny, Booth," she admonished half-heartedly and Booth picked at her side again. She pulled away, not looking back at him, knowing full well that if she did, he would be flashing one of his patented grins.

When she moved Booth's smile instantly disappeared.

"Hey, hey. Don't. I'm sorry," He whispered softly and wrapped his arms around her waist, gently pulling her back to him. Brennan leaned back into his chest and he rested his chin on her shoulder. Booth closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking in her scent.

Brennan chewed at her lip, conflicting emotions pulling at her. She stared at the tiled floor before her with unfocused eyes. Despite all of the stresses of the case—the lack of sleep, the poor food, the less-than-sanitary hotel rooms, the overdosing on coffee—she found herself feeling safe and comfortable enough to finally relax when she was in the arms of her partner. And even though they'd turned to each other in all kinds of trying times before, she still didn't know how to handle it; how to compartmentalize the facets of her life when the lines between them were blurring.

Booth's voice rumbled against her neck and she could feel his lips barely touching her skin as he spoke. "You should at least _try_ to get some rest. You're tired and I can sleep on the plane." He tightened his grip momentarily to give her a reassuring I'm-right-here-everything's-fine squeeze.

She blinked a few times to clear her eyes, only then realizing that they were halfway closed as she started to fall asleep, still wrapped up in Booth's embrace. She toed off her shoes and lifted her legs to curl up on the row of empty seats, her head pillowed against Booth's shoulder.

Once she was safely asleep, Booth gently pressed his lips against Brennan's forehead.

* * *

On the plane Brennan again attempted to listen to the lecture series on her iPod, but was unable to keep her mind focused while Booth snored next to her. He'd fallen asleep shortly after takeoff, still wearing his seat belt. Brennan briefly considered waking him to remove the restraint, but realized she would only have to wake him again later to put it back on for landing. As exhausted as he seemed to be, she thought it better to let him rest as long as possible.

Now she wasn't so sure that had been a good decision. She wasn't sure what he was dreaming about, but whatever it was made him clench and unclench his fists in his sleep. Several times his left leg jerked, bumping his knee against hers.

Brennan gently rested her hand on his thigh and his leg immediately settled, but his hands still worked with invisible tension. She traced her fingers down the inside of his forearm before threading her fingers through his. His breathing slowly settled and he stopped fidgeting in his sleep. After several minutes he settled into the seat, resting his head on her shoulder. She sighed, feeling a strange mixture of tension and ease with their arrangement.

* * *

Booth pulled into a parking space outside his apartment and killed the engine. He reached out to wake his partner, but paused to study her face in the moonlight. This was one of his favorite ways to admire her—her defenses down and stress drained from her face.

He lightly rested his hand on her arm, speaking her name. "Bones?" she didn't respond. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Bones?"

She stirred and opened her eyes, slightly disoriented. For a moment his breath caught as she gave him a tired smile. She rubbed at her eyes before checking her watch.

"It is either entirely too early or entirely too late to be awake," her voice slurred.

Booth smiled at her, "Well, then, I guess it's a good thing that we're back at my place."

He helped her gather their bags from the back of the SUV and move into his apartment. Booth found it amusing that she would normally protest his alpha male tendencies, but now that she was thoroughly worn out, she was going along with him without a single complaint.

The partners dropped their luggage in a small pile inside the door to the apartment, Booth muttering about putting things away when he could see straight. He plopped onto his couch to remove his shoes. He relaxed for a moment before suddenly standing up. Brennan looked at him quizzically.

"If I sit down I'm going to pass out and I won't wake up for a week."

"I know the feeling," she covered her mouth with the back of her hand as she yawned. "Would you mind if I slept here before I go home?"

Booth's heart leaped. "No!" He quickly recovered. "No, go right ahead. There's no sense in falling asleep at the wheel."

"It's not an inconvenience?"

"Nope. Not at all," his brow crinkled slightly. "That is, if you don't mind sleeping in Parker's room." He started making up his son's room for her before she answered. His voice echoed back to where she stood, leaning up against the couch, "It's either in here or on the couch. And you've slept in enough uncomfortable places for one week."

He stepped out of the small room and thumbed back over his shoulder, "I'm gonna get you an extra pillow, but otherwise it's all yours."

Brennan smiled and tiredly picked up her bag of clothes and toiletries. She set it down on the small bed and pulled out her night clothes and toothbrush. As tired as she was, she was willing to forgo the shower for tonight. She quietly slipped into the bathroom to change while Booth rummaged in his closet for another pillow. She wanted to tell him she'd be fine with whatever was on the boy's bed, but she also knew it was useless to protest when he was in one of his I-need-to-take-care-of-you moods.

She returned to the room and closed up her bag. As she was setting it on the floor she heard a soft rap at the door frame. She looked up at Booth, who was awkwardly kneading a pillow in his hands. He gently tossed it onto the bed next to her. Her gaze was caught by a worn patchwork quilt folded at the foot of the bed.

It was made of several types and colors of fabric—a memory quilt. Along one corner there was a single embroidered word. "Seeley." Several of the threads had worked free from the end of the 'y' from years of use. She wondered who made this for him—his mother? Grandmother? Whoever it was obviously meant for him to remember the maker and, very likely, his roots. It was interesting to her that, after he'd outgrown the blanket, he passed it along to his son.

"How's your back feeling?" He quietly asked, wondering what she was thinking about. "Do you want me to work on it a little more or do you just want to sleep?"

Brennan tightly pressed her lips together, knowing that the _honest_ answer might not be the _best_ answer in this case. "I really do need to get some sleep," she stated, not fully answering him.

He nodded slightly and stepped out of the room. She followed him into the hallway and caught his hand. He looked at her, confused. She reached up and gave him a gentle hug.

"Thanks for letting me stay here," she spoke softly.

His mouth opened and closed before he could find his voice. She pulled away and slipped back into the small room. Booth closed the door, the latch softly snicking into place. He stood there for several moments until the light peeking under the door disappeared. He called to her through the door, making her smile.

"Good night, Bones."

* * *

**A/N: **_There are a surprising number of free anthropology podcasts available on iTunes. Even more surprising, though, was that when I entered the keyword "anthropology" I was given the option to buy a download of "The Girl in the Fridge." Cool_.

_Also, I don't know if anyone else has this problem, but I _swear_, when I upload a chapter it looks fine in the preview function, but once it actually publishes weird formatting errors show up and I have to fix them. I think the cyber demons hate me._


	8. Three Chords and the Truth

**Anthropologically Speaking**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Bones_ or anything else you recognize.

**A/N:** _Due to the nature of this chapter I use a lot of music, but it's not intended to be a songfic. Just inspired by many conversations I've had with my brother about cover songs and music history._

_Much thanks to Michelle for the beta job. You rock!_

_As always, I (heart) reviews. _

* * *

**Chapter 8:** Three Chords and the Truth

* * *

Halloween had come a few months early at the Jeffersonian. A partially decomposed body had been found near the campus of Northern Chesapeake University with puncture wounds on the neck. Campus law enforcement was having trouble keeping the media from running with a story of a vampire on the loose. They wanted the case solved quickly as fall classes were just starting and NCU's administration did not want to lose revenue from frightened students transferring to another school.

Once the body had been moved to the Jeffersonian, Brennan and the other squints found the true cause of death. Fractures to the hyoid and cricold bones as well as cartilage in the throat evidenced strangulation, rather than a supernatural being. The puncture wounds had been caused by the murder weapon—a studded belt—used by the victim's roommate after an argument over a loud stereo.

To help relax after the case Booth and Brennan found themselves unwinding at a bar. They picked a table near the rear wall and ordered their drinks. Both enjoyed this time after the end of a case, the time to reflect and enjoy life instead of dwelling in the darkness.

Near the front of the bar was a hardwood dance floor and a slightly elevated area that served as a stage for the evening's live entertainment. A trio of musicians—about the right age to be attending NCU—were setting up for the evening.

A young man sat behind a drum set dressed in a navy blue shirt which sported a reference to a 1980s video game that Brennan couldn't quite place. Another young man with red hair and a short goatee sat near the front of the stage behind a microphone. Next to him a woman with a long brown ponytail pulled a guitar out of a case. A few strands of hair had worked free from her ponytail and bobbed around her face as she tuned the guitar.

The young woman picked out a few riffs that Booth could vaguely place while the two men talked. She suddenly strummed hard at the guitar and turned to look at her friends. The red-haired singer spun on his stool and rested his heels on the bottom rung of his seat. He reached out and adjusted the microphone to address the small crowd that had gathered.

"Hey, folks, I'm glad you all could come out here tonight," Brennan noticed he had a slight lilting accent and decided he was from the upper-Midwest, most likely Michigan. "We're going to do up some favorites of ours and we sure do hope you like it. If you do, we play for tips. If you don't, please don't throw anything, Ray'll be pissed." He grinned and raised a hand at the heavyset middle aged man—presumably the owner—tending bar. He blew a few breaths into the shiny harmonica in his hand and counted off for his friends. With a grin he started into "Life is a Highway."

Brennan smiled as she remembered when she'd first heard the song years ago She was transported back in time to a rusty old black car with a back rear window that didn't quite roll all the way down, and cracked, dark blue, vinyl seats that burned her skin when she wore shorts in the summertime. Her expression didn't go unnoticed by her partner and Booth nudged her gently. She looked at him, bringing herself back to the present.

"This came out about the time Russ got his driver's license. I remember the first time Mom and Dad let us go somewhere together without them. He took me to this little place called Scooters' that had ice cream and the _best_ fries. This song—" she pointed at the band on stage, the singer now playing a solo on the harmonica "—was on the radio and we sang it at the top of our lungs." Her eyes had a sparkle that Booth noted he'd been seeing more and more often lately.

Booth smiled at her remembering a fond memory of her childhood—she had so very few. She sang a few more bars, leaning in toward Booth and made several exaggerated faces at him during the chorus. He couldn't help but join in with her, dancing slightly in his seat until they were both laughing.

--

"I dunno, Bones, I'm just not sure I really like Country music—singing about horses or cows or whatever. Give me good ol' Rock n' Roll any day."

"Western," Brennan corrected.

"What?"

"You were talking about Western music. It's a common mistake. Western music is about living the Western life—cowboys and horses, etcetera. Country music, on the other hand, is about the every day. Life, religion, families—"

"Your wife leaving, your husband cheating, your dog dying, drinking too much, losing your job. Happy, fun stuff, right?"

"Not every Country song is sad, Booth."

"Nah, just most of 'em."

Brennan ignored his statement and continued, "The interesting thing, though, is Country music is the modern version of what is truly an ancient role in human culture. Before the ability to read and write was commonplace and printed materials were readily available for the masses, troubadours relayed news from the far corners of the world. Ballads told of heroes and battles, were passed from village to village, and generation to generation. Anthropologically, it's preserving a form of communication that has been around almost as long as humans."

The corners of Booth's mouth twitched, "Well, then. How do you explain 'Achy Breaky Heart'?"

Brennan shook her head. "Sometimes there's just no accounting for taste, Booth."

The band rolled through several more songs while Booth and Brennan discussed the merits of each. Booth sang along quietly to a song about the difficulty in being a superhero. They both grinned and sung along to a classic Lynyrd Skynyrd song.

The singer played the opening of a song that Booth could name on the very first note. By the second his eyes were wide open with realization. By the third he found the damp napkin his beer was resting on _very_ interesting. Brennan watched the blush creep up his neck with amusement as the singer—now joined by the entire audience—belted out a song featuring a famous pick up line about excessive drinking and intercourse.

"Do you have a problem with this song, Booth?" she asked him, amused at his prudish reaction.

"Not exactly," he muttered back.

"What's the matter, then?"

Booth shifted in his chair and worked his bottle back and forth on the table between his fingertips. "I kind of used that line one time in college."

Brennan considered his words before asking. "Did it work?"

Booth's head shot up and he realized she was truly asking, not accusing him in any way. He shook his head. "No. I got shot down. It was _epic_ fail."

"I don't know what that means."

"I crashed and burned. Hard." He sported a sad smile at the memory of being a pledge making a fool of himself over a coed from the fraternity's sister sorority.

"Oh," she averted his gaze to avoid making him uncomfortable.

He took a sip of his beer. "It's okay," He smiled at Brennan, this time it was genuine and reached all the way to his eyes. "Things work out for the best. It was a lifetime ago, anyway."

--

Several beers later the partners were enjoying friendly banter and playful teasing over memories associated with the songs they heard.

Brennan recognized a current favorite of Angela's that she'd heard many times before as the duo performed with just a guitar and a harmonica, each watching the each other while singing. It was a song of love that hinted at loss. They closed the song to stunned silence before the audience burst into applause.

The young brunette shifted the guitar in her lap and started picking out a distinct series of chords. One Booth immediately recognized.

"Oh, that's just not right," Booth stated. "This is _not_ a country song."

"I don't see why not, Booth. It _is_ about cowboys."

"Not exactly that kind of cowboy, Bones, it's a metaphor about being a rebel, a loner," realization dawned on his face. "Oh."

The man on stage sang out the song from Booth's teen years, "I'm wanted—" several voices echoed the singer's words "—dead or alive."

Booth listened for another minute, unsure if he should like this version of one of his favorite songs.

The young woman stood up and kicked at the stool to clear space to stand and play in one fluid motion as launched into the powerful guitar solo. The singer jumped to his feet to finish out the song standing next to his friend. His hands cupped the mike as he growled out the lyrics. The young woman finished out the song to several hooting audience members, arms raised, holding blazing lighters.

"Very interesting," Brennan commented.

"What is?" Booth asked.

"The interpretation that so many of the songs traditionally thought to be very much the heart of Rock can be played in a different genre and not lose the basic truth of the song," she pointed at Booth with the hand wrapped around her beer bottle. The band started into a slower, twangier version of an AC/DC Rock anthem. "It's even more interesting when you realize that even Rock has its roots planted firmly in the Rockabilly movement of the 1940s and 50s. Some musicians later started combining elements of Punk Rock and Rockabilly and produced Psychobilly in the 80's and 90's. Now Country, Rock, and Hip Hop all borrow elements from each other in a musical form of literary intertextuality."

"Now you're just making stuff up to make me not mad that they're messing with the classics," He propped his head up on one hand while looking at her.

Brennan opened her mouth to protest when she saw at the mischievous look on Booth's face and realized he was again teasing her just to get a rise out of her. She pursed her lips to fight her smile while shaking her head. "You're incorrigible."

"Yes I am," he dropped his hand as he grinned and took another swallow of beer.

--

The band was playing some sort of slow ballad and several couples had filled the dance floor. Booth looked sideways at Brennan, who again had unfocused eyes and a faraway look. He stood and pulled gently at her hand.

"Let's dance."

Brennan shook her head. "No. Us and dancing. It's not a good combination. Well, not for you anyway."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Please? Come _on_ Bones. It's not going to kill you do dance to _one_ song. Just _one._"

Brennan sighed and resigned herself to dancing to _one_ song and allowed Booth to lead her out onto the scuffed wooden floor.

Booth pulled Brennan into a gentle embrace as they moved to the music. The last time they danced—_really danced—_like this wasn't at the karaoke bar or even in her apartment. It had been years since that small town bar in Washington. Things had definitely changed between them since then. Though Booth laughed silently to himself that she was still the hottest thing to hit this town in a long time.

Booth's head dipped and he paused, the side of his nose brushing against her cheek. He could smell her perfume. His own scent mixing with hers. The alcohol on their breath.

The alcohol.

He paused, something in his brain screaming at him to stop. There was no way he was kissing her while they'd both been drinking. There was no way he was going to mess this up. No way he was going to leave any "what ifs" for this. Not as badly as he wanted it, not as long as he'd been waiting. Surely he could wait just a little longer. After all, Seeley Booth _was_ a gentleman.

He lightly brushed his lips against her cheek and rested his forehead against hers, settling for that small display of affection.

He lifted his head to pull away; distance himself from what he knew was surely a mistake in the making. Brennan lifted her hand to trace the nape of his neck and run her fingers through his hair. He closed his eyes and reveled in how his skin tingled under her touch. She gently pulled him back to her. He felt heat rise in his chest as her lips brushed softly against his for—how long _had_ it been? Two seconds? Ten? An hour?

He held back at first, unsure of how to handle this turn of events. He found himself hyper aware of everything around him. Brennan's hand tracing the curve of his shoulder while the other was still stroking his hair. One of his hands on her hip and the other at the small of her back. The press of her body against his.

Realization hit him that _she_ was kissing _him_ and he snapped into the here and now. He wasn't pushing. He wasn't going to scare her off. This is what _she_ wanted. His heart leaped at the thought.

When they came up for air Booth found himself short of breath and a little shaky. Had that just happened? He knew she had kissed him—and, unlike the mistletoe incident at Christmas—he was _sure_ that this time he'd kissed her back properly. Judging by the shortness of her breath he was sure she enjoyed this as much as he had.

They both chuckled nervously, both unsure what to say.

Brennan was the first to speak.

"I think that was more than _one _song, Booth."

He pulled her in close and she rested her cheek on his shoulder. She closed her eyes as he whispered in her ear.

"Yeah, well, I guess that means I'm going to have to make it up to you."

* * *

**A/N: _"_**_Country music is three chords and the truth." Harlan Howard_

_I picked several Rock (or possibly Pop, depending on how you look at it) songs that I've heard covered as Country tunes. I like the idea that music is music, without labels. You can pretend they are whatever you want them to be, but in my mind they're:_

_Tom Cochrane—"Life is a Highway"_

_Jimmy Buffett—"Why Don't We Get Drunk" (simultaneously the best and worst pick-up line ever)_

_Bon Jovi—"(Wanted) Dead or Alive"_

_Matt Nathanson—"Come On, Get Higher"_

_Five for Fighting—"Superman (It's Not Easy)"_

_AC/DC—"You Shook Me All Night Long"_

_and, of course, your choice of Skynyrd._


	9. Trip Around the Sun

**A/N: Hey all! I apologize for the lack of updates on this one—I've never really had writer's block before. I have a lot going on at work and also had some bad juju in my personal life. I hope you all like the ending to this series. Only a week to go until the new season! I'm running on stress and coffee, so I apologize in advance for anything that's goofed up.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 9:** Trip Around the Sun

* * *

Seeley Booth jogged lightly through the sliding glass doors of the Jeffersonian Medico-Legal lab, paused momentarily to swipe his access card to the forensics lab before ascending the stairs. He was light on his feet, taking the steps two at a time. He landed at the top and turned his head toward a voice.

"Dr. Brennan's not in her office," Jack Hodgins didn't look up from his work station. Booth stopped and turned toward him.

"Huh?"

Hodgins looked up, still wearing his magnification goggle headset.

"Dr. B's not in her office. She's doing a talk for some big wig professor she knows. She's not in right now."

Booth turned and faced his favorite bug-and-slime investigator. "Maybe I'm not here to see her."

Hodgins lifted his visor and regarded his friend skeptically. "Yeah. Right."

Booth fidgeted, "_Maybe _I'm here to see Angela."

Hodgins snorted.

"What? Why is that so hard to believe?" Booth's voice raised in pitch. Hodgins turned back to his work as Booth shook his head and headed quickly toward the artist's office.

He rapped gently at the door frame before leaning into the office. She was working on a facial reconstruction while listening to punk rock at near deafening levels. She looked up at him, smiling, and turned off the music.

"Hey, Booth. To what do I owe the honor?"

Booth rocked back and forth onto the balls of his feet and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

"Oh you know. Thought I'd stop by. See how you were doing," he picked up a small object from her desk, held it up to the light and squinted at it. "See if you could help me with a little problem I'm having."

Angela's interest was piqued at his nervous animation and she pivoted her chair to face him fully."So many inappropriate comments. So little time," she spoke softly and Booth could barely make out the words. She spoke louder, "What's up?"

Booth stopped his rocking motion and dropped into a nearby lounge chair, rubbing his hands over his face. He rubbed his fingers through his hair while he collected his thoughts and Angela appraised him with one raised eyebrow.

"I did something." He didn't look up. "With Bones."

Angela's eyes opened wide, hopeful. "Yeah? Did you sleep with her?"

Booth's head snapped up. "What? No!" Angela frowned with an "A Girl Can Dream" shrug.

"We went out for drinks last night after we closed the case. We were having a pretty good time, so I asked her to dance," he gestured nervously.

Angela bobbed her head to get him to continue. "We were really enjoying things, you know. Getting caught up in the moment."

"And you kissed her?" Angela offered. Booth shook his head.

"Oh my god! _She_ kissed _you?_"

"Shhh!" Booth waved his hands and glanced quickly at the door. "Jeez! I didn't tell the entire world and I'd appreciate it if _you _didn't either!"

Angela leaned in toward him and lowered her voice. "What was it like?"

Booth pointed his finger at her and spoke with a warning tone, "I am _not_ having this conversation with you."

"Then why'd you bring it up?"

Booth sighed with resignation. "Look, her birthday's this weekend and I want to do something special for her and I'm going to need your help."

--

Temperance Brennan reread the same page in her book for the tenth time before admitting defeat and set it down on the coffee table. She didn't want to dwell on the situation, but she was concerned that she might have done something wrong by kissing Booth. She hadn't seen him since they'd gone to the bar two nights ago.

To be fair, she hadn't been avoiding him on purpose. The first day she had to give a lecture; the next Booth was buried in paperwork; Today Angela took her out to lunch, and tonight Booth was at a school function with Parker. Even though she missed him—something she was loathe to admit, even to herself—she wasn't about to cut into his time with Parker just to talk to him.

So she was only a little surprised that at three minutes past ten she heard a familiar rhythmic knocking at her door.

Booth stood outside her door, listening to her steps grow louder as she moved through the apartment. He watched as light pooled under her door and shadows dance as she stopped to unlock the deadbolt. She opened the door with one side of her mouth curled into a smile.

"I don't know what's sadder; that you're here at ten at night, or that I don't have to check to see who it is."

Booth answered with a jovial tone, "You should know better, Bones. All kinds of creepy guys are out in the middle of the night. You never know who just might waltz right in here." Grinning, he stepped past her as she closed and relocked the door.

"Were you sleeping?" He asked, gesturing at her night time attire.

"I was reading."

Booth picked up the book lying on the coffee table and flipped through the pages. "Wow, 'The role of the zygomatic arch for the statics of the skull and its adaptive shape.' I know if I read that _I'd_ be asleep."

Brennan rolled her eyes at him and crossed her arms across her chest, "Are you just here to mock my taste in reading material?"

Booth shook his head and fell into the chair closest to the coffee table before propping his feet up on it. "Nope. We've got a case. It's at a federal flood control project up north of here. If we leave now we can get there by midnight."

Brennan's face lit up at the suggestion of a road trip. "I'll get ready now," she moved into her room and closed the door.

Booth smiled. His plan was working so far.

He spoke loudly so she could hear him through the closed door.

"We might be there all night, so you'd better pack—" the door swung open and Brennan emerged, holding a small duffle bag. "An overnight bag," he finished. His brow wrinkled in confusion, "How did you pack so quickly?"

She shrugged. "After the last time we left on the fly and I spent two days in the same clothes I decided to take your advice and pack a buggy bag."

Booth winced at her mangled phrase. "Bug _out_ bag. Bug out. Not buggy." He shook his head, "It's not important." He nearly leaped to his feet. "Let's get going. We don't have all night."

He briefly rested his hand at the small of her back and followed her out of the apartment.

--

The bright lights of the city faded away behind them as they spent two hours on the road. They bantered on about her lecture, his time with Parker, and sang along to classic rock —Booth relented and even allowed Brennan a few minutes of Hip Hop—to stave off fatigue. Brennan lamented that Angela was pestering her to go out for drinks the following evening for her birthday.

"What's with all the negativity toward birthdays, Bones?"

"I'm not negative. I just haven't celebrated one in a while." Booth looked sideways at her, waiting for her to continue. "It's not so much the celebration as the consumerism. The symbolism I'm fine with—celebrating life—it's the blatant consumption wrapped up in an ancient ritual that bothers me."

"Birthdays are ancient?" Booth's brow furrowed as he navigated off the expressway.

Brennan nodded, "Anthropologically, birthdays were likely man's first celebration after we learned to record the passage of time. Historians believe early man held the superstition that evil spirits were especially strong when a person was experiencing a change, such as having a child, getting married, or turning a year older. It was likely believed that by having a large number of friends and family around and by making loud noises the evil spirits would be frightened away. This tradition has perpetuated through millennia, which is why we still have parties complete with singing, laughing, and noisemakers."

"So what about goofy hats?" he asked and rolled his head to the side to look at her.

She pursed her lips in mock concentration. "Probably to help make people laugh," she replied flatly and Booth grinned.

--

Booth turned the dark SUV off the state highway and down a white stone two-track that led to a small gravel parking lot. A completely empty gravel parking lot.

Brennan appraised him with one eye closed.

"Booth? Where are all the law enforcement officers and the forensics team?"

"Yeah. About that," he offered a toothy grin. "There's no case." He slipped quickly from the vehicle while she stared after him, her mouth gaping.

She recovered and barreled out of the truck after him. She rounded the back of the Tahoe as Booth was pulling out a small backpack.

"What do you mean there's no case?" she asked. "You drag me out here in the middle of the night and there's no case?"

Booth shouldered the pack, closed the rear, and pressed a button on his key chain to lock the vehicle.

"Nope. No case. I made it up to get you out here." He started walking away, Brennan still staring after him. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

She trotted a few steps to catch up. "Wanted what to be a surprise?"

He pointed down the trail and smiled, barely hiding his excitement. "You'll see."

They walked down a trail by the red beam of Booth's tac light, the new moon offering no light of its own. Booth stopped when they reached an overlook of the dammed river below. He dropped the pack next to a log that had been propped up on two smaller logs to create a bench.

"Happy birthday, Bones." Booth moved behind her and pointed over her shoulder to the southwest horizon. Brennan looked confused while she searched the sky for Booth's surprise. There, between Cygnus and Pegasus she saw it—a small kite shape made of five stars. Delphinus, the Dolphin.

Booth dropped his arms to circle her waist. "I couldn't think of anything you'd like, so I thought you might enjoy pulling an all-nighter." He let go of her and pulled a blanket out of the backpack; the midnight autumn air was crisp.

She didn't look at him but continued watching the stars, her lips slightly parted. "I can't believe you remembered me telling you about this."

He stood to softly kiss her cheek and laughed, "I listen to you. Maybe not the squint-speak, but I listen to the important stuff."

She turned to face him, "That 'squint-speak' is import—" He stopped her with a press of his lips against hers. When they finally came up for air, Brennan rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She snuggled into his neck, enjoying the sensation of his rough stubble against her cheek.

"Thanks, Booth. This is perfect."

He felt her shiver, so he pulled her close to his chest. He slipped his hands under her shirt and ran his fingers over the soft skin of her back. His lips brushed up against the delicate skin of her ear lobe and he briefly tightened his grip on her. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her shampoo and he felt her warming up in his embrace.

"Still cold?" he asked, his lips moving against the skin of her neck, sending a tingling sensation up and down her spine. The scientific side of her knew this was just her body's response to pheromones and endorphins being released in her brain. The small part of her that didn't listen to logic screamed to just enjoy the moment.

She ran a hand under his jacket and up his back. "No," her lips danced against his neck. Booth smiled and moved to sit on the log bench, pulling her into his lap, refusing to let go of her. He pulled the blanket around both of them for warmth.

"I lied," Brennan whispered, barely audible. She felt Booth shift as he waited for her to elaborate. "It wasn't like kissing Russ. Not even a little bit." She laughed at her own joke, then thought for a moment and continued. "Well, objectively I wouldn't know. I've never kissed Russ before." Booth reached up, traced a thumb along her jawline, then her lips, and she fell silent.

"I lied, too." Brennan lifted her head to look into Booth's eyes and he smiled. "We're not 'just partners'. We haven't been in a _long_ time."

They both smiled at this and she settled back into the curve of his shoulder. She closed her eyes and relaxed, enjoying the comforting closeness of his body. They remained motionless and silent; Booth felt like time had stopped in this one moment, allowing them time that was just for them. Brennan stirred, and swallowed to clear her throat.

"Booth?" she asked, not looking at his face. "Why did you step in front of that bullet?"

Booth didn't speak, or even move. He dropped his chin and rested it on her shoulder. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"You know why." His voice was ragged.

"I do," she stated. She continued, her voice shaky, "I would have done it for you, you know."

Booth nodded, "I know."

"It wasn't a very logical thing to do, Booth. You have so much to lose."

"Yeah. And if I hadn't, I would have lost something else just as important."

He felt her stiffen in his arms at this and he continued.

"To you this is all just chemistry, or biology, or anthropological inevitabilities, but to me it's more than that. It's possibilities."

She looked up at him and he brushed his knuckles across her cheek before tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. He looked deep into her eyes as he spoke.

"The possibility of something more. Of something really great."

"But what about—" she paused, trying to find the right words.

"What we do? What we want and don't want? What's different between us?" he finished for her and she nodded. "That's all important, too, but I had this rude awakening about what was important in the big picture. And I realized that what was important in my head wasn't nearly as big a deal as what was in my heart."

She smiled, knowing he probably had been thinking of just the right thing to say for some time. Probably been rehearsing it for a while. And probably why he had been avoiding her the past few days—so he wouldn't spill the peas about all of this.

"Something inside me decided the odds were in my favor on this." He stated and the corner of his smile twitched, hopeful that she'd understand what he meant.

Brennan smiled, snaked a hand behind his head, pulling him close. She rested her forehead against his, their lips touching as she whispered. "It sounds like maybe you finally got that big payout you've been after."

* * *

**FIN.**

**I hope you guys liked it**—**please let me know if you did. Again, I appreciate all the wonderful feedback on this story. **  
**Thank you so much for all the fav adds, the alerts, the author alerts, and just for reading.** **It means a great deal to me that I've made folks smile, even when I'm not feeling so hot. Without the kind words I wouldn't post, and I don't know about you guys, but my summer would have been a _long_ one.**


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